what's the name of the game?
by kerrykins
Summary: Miranda and Andy play some board games.


Andy had spent the entire day playing board games with Miranda Priestly, for reasons that were completely beyond her. Maybe Miranda was bored. The older woman was prone to bouts of spontaneity when things were too slow for her— which was pretty much all the time.

Miranda frowned, glaring imperiously at one of Andy's checker pieces. It was in her way, something Andy had deliberately planned. Miranda drummed her fingers along the red and black board, her brow knit in concentration.

While she contemplated her next move, Andy stole a glance at the clock on Miranda's wall. 11:30. Christ, didn't she want to go home by now? The office was and had been empty except for the two of them today— apparently no one had decided to inform Andy of the three day weekend, and Miranda didn't ever take breaks.

"I'll skip my turn," Miranda declared, causing Andy to jump a little. She always sounded like she was speaking directly into Andy's ear, which never ceased to be unbelievably jarring. How could someone with such a soft voice sound so nearby? It was probably because she spent the majority of the last year listening to Miranda for hours on end.

"Sure." Andy quickly made a move, eager to get this game over with. She didn't particularly care if she won or not. Miranda had surprisingly proven herself to be a pretty good sport when it came to losing, although out of the fifteen games they've played, she had only lost three of them.

Apparently, that had been the wrong decision, because Miranda took out three of her checkers with one move. With a neutral expression, she plucked them from the board and set them aside.

Andy had been expecting that but was impressed nonetheless. "Good game."

"You didn't fare too poorly yourself," replied Miranda, busying herself with stowing away the pieces. "Three pieces to one. You could have beaten me, had you calculated that last move better."

Andy seriously doubted that. No matter what she would have done, Miranda would have still have figured out a way to win. "Thanks."

Miranda set the checker board atop a neat stack of the other board games they had completed. It included Scrabble, Risk, Clue, chess, mahjong, several card games, Candy Land, and Pictionary.

The ones that remained were Monopoly and Exploding Kittens, the latter of which Andy had been eying curiously. As if she'd read Andy's mind, Miranda selected the red box of cards, already shuffling them with a well-practiced hand.

Andy opened her mouth to say that she had never played this game before but ultimately decided against it. Miranda would get annoyed and underneath the current cool, patient exterior lay the same ornery woman that Andy knew so well, ready to show up at a moment's notice.

"The objective of the game is to avoid Exploding Kitten cards," Miranda explained smoothly, as if the words 'exploding kittens' were something she said on a daily basis. Andy tried not to laugh.

"One defuse card is handed out to every player at the start of the match, along with five random cards. At the end of each turn you'll draw a new card from the pile, much like one does in Go-Fish." Miranda spoke as earnestly about the game as she did with anything else, and at that Andy couldn't hide a smile.

Miranda, who didn't miss a thing, stopped speaking when she looked at Andy. Andy's throat closed up in sheer panic, wondering what the hell Miranda was going to say or do next. Fire her for smiling? It certainly wouldn't be a first. That had happened to another girl a couple years back, according to Nigel.

Miranda just cleared her throat and resumed her explanation of the rules as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Andy tried not to sag in relief and absorb at least a little bit of what Miranda was saying.

As they played the game, Andy noticed a lot of odd things. For one, Miranda was a lot quieter than she had been before. Secondly, she wouldn't meet Andy's eyes and spent a lot more time on planning her next turn.

Andy's job was to worry about Miranda and had been for a very long time. While this wasn't technically work-related, she worried anyways. It wasn't like she could help it, she was just very good at worrying about everything. That was one of the reasons why Miranda let her stick around, because she was emotionally incapable of relaxing anywhere in the vicinity of Runway. That, by extension, included Miranda herself— who Andy had learned could be surprisingly easy to talk to and spend time with when she wasn't trying to make grown men pee their pants.

But she still scared Andy, because no matter how chill Miranda was, she still had the power to end any hopes of a career in ten seconds flat. That was equally scary and impressive— not that Miranda gave a flying fuck about impressing Andy.

When she caught Miranda staring into space for the umpteenth time, Andy said, "It's your turn now."

The older woman blinked at her. "Oh." That seemed to wake her up a bit, as she began sifting through her cards in that self-assured way of hers. But once her turn was up, she disappeared again. Now, Andy knew Miranda better than anyone else did, better than what Andy knew about anything else. It was a little pathetic that her only real field of expertise in life was in understanding the enigma known as her boss.

She also knew that Miranda's mind was a million miles away, which wasn't very surprising, but again— Andy worried. It was troubling that she was worried for Miranda Priestly's well-being, not because she was worried about the effect that would have on her own, but because she genuinely wanted Miranda to be happy. Only problem was, Miranda Priestly wasn't the first person to come to any sane person's mind at word 'happy.' How could such a workaholic, with a string of ex-husbands to prove her less-than-perfect love life, possibly be happy? She seldom saw her kids, she had to fight tooth and nail for her position- and still did, and she hardly slept.

As an insider, Andy could confirm that Miranda... was miserable. Just all the time, whether or not she had her coffee, whether or not Runway was doing well. When things went well, all the sharply-honed words and general unpleasantness fell away to reveal a tired, lonely woman.

There was nothing Miranda could hide behind if she wasn't angry.

Andy was torn between feeling sorry for Miranda or sorry for herself, because it was a lot like looking in the mirror sometimes. Except Andy didn't really consider herself the same brand of batshit crazy as Miranda, and she tried to treat people decently. She never would understand why Miranda chose to be so cruel— things were so much more efficient when people liked you. In her personal experience, at least. Then again, people did like Miranda, but for the exact opposite reasons why people liked Andy. The more Miranda hurt someone, the more desperate they were to gain her favour. Andy pitied the poor people who thought they could actually earn any kind of praise or recognition from Miranda.

"I'll go get some water," Andy finally said, in lieu of asking Miranda if she wanted any water. Questions were still something Miranda had a finite amount of patience for.

Miranda didn't say no or call her a blockhead, so Andy took that as a yes. She rose from the couch and made her way over to the Pellegrino chilling in her desk. Andy knew it was probably stupid, but she'd converted one of her desk's unused drawers into a mini fridge for Miranda's water.

When she returned into Miranda's office with a bottle in hand, Andy froze. Miranda looked like she was about to cry. She'd only seen Miranda cry once, in Paris. Back then, she hasn't known Miranda very well, but it was still painful to watch. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she kept looking at the walls and ceiling and floor like she'd never seen anything like it before. I leave for two seconds and she has a nervous breakdown, Andy thought. Oh god.

Unsure what else to do, she sat down next to Miranda as opposed to across from her. Slowly, she settled into the seat, as if Miranda was some frightened animal that would kill her if she made any sudden movements— which was actually a pretty accurate comparison.

"Hey," Andy tried. "What's wrong?"

Miranda answered by biting her bottom lip and not actually answering. That bad, then. She probably wasn't talking because her voice would break at the most unflattering moments, and God forbid Miranda allow herself to sound like anything other than a cross between Marilyn Monroe and some sexy librarian.

"Okay," Andy said, not knowing what she was saying 'okay' to. Nothing about this situation was even remotely okay.

Maybe she should just play dumb, so Miranda would be able to make fun of Andy and feel better about herself. "So how about those Yankees? They didn't do too hot this season. Neither did Chanel, come to think of it. Damn, seems like both of our teams are losing."

Miranda didn't say anything. Andy kept barreling on. "You know who you remind me of? Those women in old movies who hate wearing anything but black and always play those pretty but impossible high society girls. And then Clark Gable or Gregory Peck has to come along to straighten things out."

At that, Miranda rolled her eyes. Andy was encouraged by that, feeling as though a great burden had been lifted off her chest. "Except you have better hair than they did. Plus they all either looked like Rita Hayworth or Bette Davis. There was literally no in-between. I have this very plausible theory that back then, Hollywood would just stick people that looked like famous people in movies, regardless of acting experience and just hope for the best." Stupidity. Sheer stupidity would save Andy's ass. Not her job per say, but probably her sanity— watching Miranda trying not to cry was like knowing a newborn baby was about to burst into tears in the middle of an Applebee's. Both brought the same kind of looming anxiety that made Andy willing to stop it at all costs.

Clearly, there was nothing in the world that made Miranda happier than feeling superior to people, because now she was smiling. At Andy.

Andy's heart skipped a beat because hey, not many people could honestly say that Miranda Priestly thought they were funny. Or at least a dumbass in an entertaining sort of way.

"In that case," Miranda began, a hint of amusement in her voice. "What actress do I remind you of?"

Meryl Streep, Andy wanted to say, but Miranda would probably bitch-slap her into another century if she said that. Obviously, a much prettier and more sophisticated Meryl Streep, but that was besides the point. They had the same nose.

"Oh, I was just using those other actresses because you're so much better than they are. There would be no movie because you'd solve the murder mystery on your own in fifteen minutes."

"Fine, you've made your point," Miranda said exasperatedly, but her mouth twitched, as if trying to restrain a laugh. "You're overdoing it now."

Andy held her hands up in defeat and slumped against the couch. Validation was a powerful thing.

It was dead quiet, but Andy wasn't bothered by it and by the looks of it, neither was Miranda. The older woman was looking out the window again, but Andy could tell that this time she was actually taking in whatever it was she was seeing outside. The slight furrow of her brow and tongue stuck in her cheek was something Andy had come to recognise as a thoughtfule expression.

Then Miranda turned to look at her, an unreadable look on her face. Andy couldn't place it, which was odd considering she should be able to.

"I'm— I'm glad you were here today," Miranda said unsteadily. She studied Andy's face, who couldn't help but feel like an ant under a microscope, vaporised by sunlight and all. Truth be told, Andy had a lot of fun today, more than she would have if she had stayed at home like everyone else. Thank God all her co-workers were trying to sabotage her.

"What happened, earlier?" Andy asked before she could stop herself.

Miranda's eyes flickered up and down Andy's face. "It's merely the bi-weekly fit of female hysteria. I typically spend my Monday nights confined to a padded room, as you are already well aware of."

Andy groaned internally at the joke, when she would have laughed under other circumstances. "Miranda, as your assistant, I need to know what's going on with you. I can't read your mind all the time."

"Perhaps that's for the best."

Maybe for Miranda, but not so much Andy. "Okay," Andy said. "You don't have to tell me, then. But—"

"Andrea, I'm in love with you."

Andy's face went cold, then unbearably hot. She knew she had misheard that, but how could her auditory processing issues be that crummy?

That lost look resurfaced in Miranda's eyes, her jaw tensing. "Oh no."

"Okay," Andy said, for the third time that day and like the other two times, she didn't really mean it.

"What does 'okay' mean in this scenario? Do you see the problem now?"

"No, no." Words left Andy's mouth in a rush. "Um, just, give me a second. Why?"

Miranda curled her lip in disdain. "That's of zero relevance right now. Your two-weeks notice starts now and I expect your letter of resignation on my desk tomorrow."

Andy was outraged, afraid, and devastated all at once. That had to be some kind of record, or something. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"That's not much of a choice," Andy protested.

"I never said it was one."

Andy stared at Miranda, whose face was cold and stern and brooking no argument. "So you're chasing me out because you love me?" That was stupid, but also incredibly on-brand with Miranda.

Miranda's face flushed angrily. "Well, what else is there to do?" she hissed.

"For starters, you could ask me out on a date at least," Andy shot back. "Or at the very least ask my how I feel about any of this. You don't get to dictate how I live my life because of something I have no control over."

"I very well can."

"D-did you," Andy sputtered. "Did you not hear anything I just said?" Was Miranda playing hard to get, or was she really this dense? Either way, she was getting really fed up.

"Obviously." Miranda rolled her eyes, in a stop-being-stupid-or-I'll-stab-you sort of way.

"Miranda," Andy began, as patiently as she possibly could. She took Miranda's hand in hers, who looked too shocked to do anything other than let her. "I think you're smoking hot, not to mention super smart and probably the most interesting person I know. So please don't fire me. I'm sorry for having the audacity to compare you to Bette Davis." She managed to say that last part with a straight face, which really was hard. Miranda was bluffing— well, not really, but she would soon see how dramatic she was being about this whole thing.

Miranda glanced at Andy, then behind her, then at her again. "What?"

Rolling her eyes, Andy just leaned in and kissed her. She soon realised that she might have gone in for the kill a little too aggressively when she nearly knocked Miranda over— but hey, a girl had to do what she had to do to keep her job and hot boss. Miranda seemed taken aback by Andy kissing her for the first couple of seconds, about as reactive as a piece of cardboard. Then she began kissing Andy back, softly and tentatively. Miranda cupped Andy's jaw and her lips brushed against the corner of Andy's mouth when they pulled away.

"We never finished Exploding Kittens," Miranda informed Andy, sounding a little dazed.

"Oh, you're right." Andy grabbed her deck of cards from the other side of the glass coffee table and fanned them out. "I think it was your turn."

Miranda raised an eyebrow. "I didn't mean we should finish now, Andrea." Then she pulled Andy in for another kiss.


End file.
